


Equidae

by bbcsherlockian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: CCI AU, M/M, horse riding AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 19:42:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbcsherlockian/pseuds/bbcsherlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Well, this is the start, folks. If you see any mistakes in my writing or my facts, I will love you forever if you point them out to me! They all say write what you know, but obviously I have never been a competitor in a world class event; I don't even know if they have PA's. Give me some create freedoms by all means, but I'd like to make this as believable as possible :)</p>
        </blockquote>





	1. A Gaping Hole

3rd July, 2013

 

**Ruthless Holmes Secures Another Win**

_Sherlock Holmes completely wiped the floor at Badminton Horse Trials this May, earning his first medal of the year. When pressed for interview following the event, he stated he was “pleased to have participated”. In 2010, Holmes competed at Lexington in the Eventing World Championships, alongside William Fox-Pitt and Nicola Wilson, earning his first gold for Great Britain, after achieving a silver in 2006 at Aachen. His next event is scheduled to be Burghley, running from the 5-8th of September. It is expected that Holmes will participate in the Olympic Games of 2016, despite nothing having been confirmed._

 

John sighed and put down the paper, scrubbing his hand over his face. He had desperately wanted to compete at Badminton, but he’d acquired a nasty shoulder injury the week before, and had been bedridden. Secretly, he’d been itching to meet Holmes. People called him tactless and hurtful, but christ, could he _ride_. John marveled at how such an elegant yet near-unbeatable rider had been fairly unheard of only a few years previously, with his outstanding facial features and stunningly attractive voice. That was what the public went for, right? Well, it had certainly drawn the attention of John Watson, long before the rise to fame which had struck the equine community by storm. In fact, it was all anyone seemed to want to talk about these days. John was old hat. To be fair, he didn’t particularly mind that he’d been pushed onto the backburner to make way for some of the younger riders - he’d had his day, after all - but it did bother him a little that no one really seemed to _care_ anymore. Pushing the thought to the back of his mind, he stood up to make another tea.

 

“Harry!” He called up the stairs, “Tea?” His sister, Harry, was staying with him for the weekend after the exhausting divorce from her wife, Clara. At least, he’d suggested a weekend, although he intended for her to stay for rather a while longer, to make sure she didn’t revert immediately back to drink. He heard a noncommittal, muffled noise above him and he walked into the kitchen, his lips pressed tightly together. This was going to be a long weekend.

 

John tapped the granite counter gently for a few seconds, before reaching for the tea bags. The kitchen was too modern, too clean for him to really feel comfortable with, as was the rest of the house. At the time, it had felt like an excellent idea to buy a converted barn just outside London, with enough acres for his recreational horses, but he was just so uncomfortable. Away from his family home, his life, he felt incompatible with the house and completely alone. Guiltily, he had hoped that Harry being here would help keep him company, even if that meant teasing him over his abysmal lovelife, but she didn’t even talk to him. The kettle clicked, and he jumped, roused from his own head.

 

***

 

“I don’t really see the problem,” Sherlock stirred his coffee and leant back further into the seat. “I won Badminton, I’m going to win Burghley and then I’m going to win Kentucky. I don’t care about the money; I’ll be the second person to have ever completed such a feat, not to mention the first man.”

 

“Sherlock,” Molly, Sherlock’s PA, stammered slightly. She clenched her clipboard tighter. “You can’t just… just assume you’re going to win everything. And we do need to think about this financially, I mean-”

 

“But I will.”

 

“What?”

 

“I will win everything. Have you seen the competition this year? It’s laughable, frankly. At least four of those who might have been difficulty under alternative circumstances are emotionally compromised: two of them are having secret affairs - both hidden from their husbands and the press, another’s mother just died from alcohol poisoning and the fourth one just got divorced. The rest, well, can you imagine Andrew _Nicholson_ scoring more than me? His last half decent medal was in 1992, for god’s sake.” He curled his upper lip snidely.

 

“You can’t just _say_ things like that. These poor people are probably terrified of competing against you. You sound like a pretentious school boy. Sit up properly.” She took a sip of her drink and crossed her arms. Sherlock smiled. Molly Hooper was, surprisingly, one of the few people on the planet who weren’t afraid to put him in his place. Not that it worked, of course.

 

“Thank you for the coffee,” He said, standing up and sliding on a ridiculous grey coat, “And before you ask, no, I’m not doing the world championships again. You keep asking every year. I’ve already done it once; Dull and I hated my team. You know I hate team competitions. I trust you not to let me get bored.” With that, Sherlock swept out of the little coffee shop and was lost almost immediately in the pedestrian traffic, the glass doors swinging anticlimactically to a close behind him.

 

“But it’s the flipping World Championships,” Molly murmured into her cup.

 

***

 

John scratched the back of his neck helplessly. This was a terrible idea. The cursor danced neatly against the expanse of white, tormenting him. The fact that he had nothing to say just made him realise how dull his existence was when he wasn’t in a competition. His life _was_ horses. He needed to get out more. Maybe he should get in touch with some of his old friends from uni, see what they’re doing after all these years. No, they’d just think he was a pretentious, vaguely successful idiot who was far too up-himself. Perhaps he should try and get himself a good, solid girlfriend, who wouldn’t leave him after getting a taste of his unpredictable lifestyle. Or maybe he should just find a quick shag, easy with no strings attached. He had never been this alone before in his life. It wasn’t as if there was a particular shaped hole which an individual used to fill - he just needed _someone_. A box popped up in the corner of his screen, bringing him out of his reverie; an email. He opened it. _Of course_. Perhaps his blog wouldn’t be so dull to read, after all.

 

“Harry,” He shouted, opening the email, “I’m going to Burghley.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the start, folks. If you see any mistakes in my writing or my facts, I will love you forever if you point them out to me! They all say write what you know, but obviously I have never been a competitor in a world class event; I don't even know if they have PA's. Give me some create freedoms by all means, but I'd like to make this as believable as possible :)


	2. Recklessness

26th August, 2013

 

The next few weeks were a blur of rigorous fitness training for both John and his horses. It was absolutely exhausting, not to mention the strict diet he kept himself to, so he was both lighter and fitter for the jumps.  He really only trusted one other person to ride his horses, and that was Greg Lestrade, his formal rider and general handler when he wasn’t able to be present. Thanks to Greg’s constant training in between competitions, it became apparent that John’s mares were in significantly better shape than he was.

 

“Ugh,” He slumped down into the grass at the side of the school, tired and aching. “I haven’t felt this worn out since… well, Sarah Sawyer, third year of uni.”

 

Greg laughed. “I know what you mean. But seriously, you’ve been doing well, John. Although I’m not entirely sure when I stopped being your rider and started being your personal trainer.”

 

“I didn’t think I needed one.” He closed his eyes. “I mean, the whole shoulder incident didn’t help, but I didn’t think I’d be in this poor shape. I’ve been in the saddle once every three days for the past two years or so, but with your strenuous exercise program… I’m knackered. I don’t think I’m cut for it. Burghley, Greg, _Burghley._ Who’s idea was that?”

 

John had competed at Burghley four years previously, and had walked away with an 8th when, John would helpfully remind you, he was a much younger and fitter man. He threw an arm over his face.

 

“Yours, I believe. Come on, you’ve done enough for today. You’re such a natural, anyway; you don’t even break a sweat at 0.8 meters. Inside, with you.”

 

“Well ‘m perfe’tly happy here san’you.” John groaned from under his arm.

 

“I disagree.” Greg helped haul him to his feet and back to the house, where he shoved John in the general vicinity of the bathroom. “You absolutely stink.”

 

***

 

“Sherlock,” Molly knocked gently on Sherlock’s hotel room door. They were in Manchester for an interview. “Sherlock! Are you awake?”

 

“Mmph.” Came the reply from behind the door.

 

“Well, I’m coming in. You’d better be decent.” She out the keycard in the lock and pushed the door open just a fraction, not particularly looking forward to what she’d discover on the other side. Sherlock was sprawled carelessly across the narrow sofa which dominated the far side of the room, his hands pressed neatly together under his chin. He had draped himself in a thin T-shirt and pyjama bottoms, and his hair was a tangle of life curling itself across his forehead. He looked… well, thoroughly shagged out. Molly swallowed, and glanced at the bed.

 

“Were you with anyone last night?” She tried to drag the words back into her mouth, but it was a futile effort.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Were you, I mean you sort of look… it doesn’t matter.” Sherlock returned his glare to the ceiling. She gathered herself. “Sherlock, have you actually been training for Burghley? Any more than usual, I mean.” ‘Usual training’ for Sherlock usually consisted of eating next to nothing and riding once a day for thirty minutes. It was hardly sufficient, Molly thought.

 

“No.”

 

“Right.” A pause. “Do you think you should maybe-”

 

“No.”

 

Molly sighed. In retrospect, Sherlock was probably right - he always was - but it still frustrated her. “Well, breakfast is in half an hour, and I suggest you shower. Your interview’s at one, and it wouldn’t hurt to look vaguely presentable.” She waited for about a minute until she realised that there was going to be no response, and then left, not bothering to shut the door behind her.

 

***

 

John slumped onto the sofa, ignoring the distant irritation of the cold rivulets of water running down his neck. He pushed buttons aimlessly on the remote until he could feel his eyes closing of their own accord, falling into a gentle sleep to the faint buzzing of news reporters on the television. The ridiculously expensive sofa enveloped his singing muscles and let him float deliciously into unconsciousness.

 

_“...Sherlock Holmes, World Class Eventer, in the press today made the announcement...”_

 

John’s eyes snapped open.

 

_“...that he will be competing at both Burghley and Rolex Kentucky in the near future, in an attempt to beat Pippa Funnell’s ‘grand slam’ of three consecutive Concours Complet International 4 Stars wins. Last night, during the football match…”_

 

The TV continued to spew out some trivial story about Wayne Rooney. His head was spinning. Sherlock Holmes couldn’t be expecting to win the Rolex prize, could he? It was madness to even consider it; he was good, but he wasn’t that good, surely. If Andrew Hoy and Oliver Townend couldn’t achieve it, then neither could Holmes, who had barely been at Word Class level for three years.

 

“Why are you watching that?” Harry spoke from the doorway, making him jump. “You’ll ruin your sofa, you know.”

 

“I, um. Sorry. Long day.” He blinked. “Decided to grace the world with your presence at last?”

 

“Shut up. I only came down for something to eat.”

 

“Of course.” He attempted a smile, but he felt it looked more like a grimace. “Are you… feeling any better?”

 

“John you’re terrible at hiding what you’re trying to say. No, I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since I’ve been here. Not that you’ve got any in the house.” John allowed himself a small smile at that. He actually had a single bottle of Highland park stashed under his bed, half empty, which he desperately didn’t want Harry to find.

 

“Good. I don’t know what you’re expecting to find in that kitchen. I think there are some bagels left in the left middle cupboard.”

 

“Thank god. I was slightly concerned I’d have to eat that rabbit food shit you’ve been buying lately.” John threw a cushion at her.

 

***

 

“I can’t believe you did that.” Molly pushed the lamb around her plate. They were sitting in a little Spanish restaurant, twenty minutes after Sherlock’s interview.

 

“I did tell you this morning.” They had ordered a tapas between them, but so far Molly had done all of the eating.

 

“Sherlock, half the world thinks you’re insane!” She took an angry bite, her teeth scraping across the fork. Sherlock winced.

 

“Only for a short while. Next year in April, when I win-”

 

“You have to stop doing that.”

 

“Stop what?” He glared at her and she shifted in her seat.

 

“Just… assuming you’re going to win both Burghley and Kentucky! What happens if you go wrong, hm? Something out of your control, I don’t know… an injury, a refusal, whatever. You’ll look like a terribly optimistic fool who’s been rightfully taken down a peg or two. No one’ll like you.”

 

“I don’t really care. And anyway, that’s beside the point. A refusal is completely within my control to avoid, as is an injury to either me or the horse for the most part. The chances are ultimately very slim. I’m good. I know I’m good, and I know I can win. Excuse me.” Sherlock stood and walked purposefully to the male toilets. Molly rubbed her forehead.

 

He went into one of the cubicles, pulled out his phone and began texting furiously.

 

_Ensure the newspaper articles are in my favour tomorrow. -SH_

 

The reply came almost instantly.

 

_Naturally. But I am curious: why are you so suddenly desperate to make a positive impression? -MH_

_My own assistant is doubting my skills. I can’t have the nation pitted against me, thinking I’m reckless. -SH_

_I’ll do my utmost. -MH_

_Sherlock, please be careful. -MH_

 

Sherlock scoffed and closed his phone. When he returned, Molly had finished the lamb and tortilla, and had payed the bill.

 

“I didn’t think you were going to have anything else, so…” She closed her handbag and stood, passing him his coat.

 

“What happened to the lipstick?”

 

“I… No, It wasn’t really working for me.”

 

“It was a big improvement. Your mouth’s too small now.”

  
“Oh.” Straightening her jacket, she wondered why she even bothered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, fact-correcting is always appreciated. Thank you so much to Scarlett for holding my hand through this. :)


End file.
